On no particular day, in no particular year, the world is at war. Three men are in a boat for routine maintenance. They begin to test the ship’s gun but there is a malfunction. Smoke appears, fire will follow, but one of the men is able to clear the jam and return things to normal. I am amazed by his heroism and ask my grandfather what his reward was. “A pat on the back and a ‘Good job’”, he replies. I am disappointed and too young to understand; surely there should be a reward for saving the day. Instead he shows me a fake ruby and gold ring. He points to a dent on one side and recounts how it got there. A boy in the neighborhood was harassing my grandmother so my grandfather knocked his tooth out. Another tale of heroism. I ask if I can have the ring and he agrees. I put the ring away in my treasure chest and place it on the shelf. It is my reward from my grandfather, my prize for listening to his story. I am no longer disappointed, but I am still too young to understand.
My grandfather had many stories to tell. Stories of his youth told at holidays, stories of my mother’s youth told at the dinner table. It was hard to tell fact from fiction, but the story of my own youth was still being written, and to me, everything was true. We played poker for quarters at night, we ate breakfast together, and went swimming in the pool. But youth turned into adolescence, and adolescence turned into indifference. My inquiries and amazement turned into silent nods and occasional grins. I return home from school each day and can only smile and nod at my grandparents’ greetings. I tuck myself away to play video games or do homework while they play cards at the kitchen table. They bicker the whole time, the way old people bicker. My mother rolls her eyes and I smile. It is no particular day, in no particular year, and we are content.
The days roll on, my grandfather drops me off at school each morning and I nod at his farewell. I spend the school days being extroverted and a class clown to make my friends laugh, to make myself laugh, to be liked. But the final bell rings and I am exhausted. I am ready to go home. I hastily make my way to the exit, my anxiety growing with each step. I make it home, no energy left to talk, and simply nod at my grandparents. They are playing cards and bickering, but not the old people kind. My mother doesn’t roll her eyes. Her depression grows. I tuck myself away from it all. I am waiting for my reward.
The years roll on and I am in college. My brother is graduating from his and the ceremony is being held on campus. My grandparents are bickering, my mother joining them as we all get ready to go. I ride in the back with my mother as we drive to the college. We arrive and begin making our way to the ceremony. My grandfather is behind us, his pace continuing to slow. He cannot make it the rest of the way. We call for campus security to give us a ride and finally get to the ceremony. We watch my brother get his diploma and return home. My grandparents will not be joining us for the celebratory dinner afterwards. My grandfather needs to rest. He tucks himself away in bed. He is waiting for his reward. It will come soon. I return home one night from class and turn towards my grandparents’ room to check in and say good night. My mother and brother are already in there helping my grandfather get out of bed to go to the bathroom. I do not want to interrupt or get in the way so I go to my room instead. I will check in tomorrow. Tomorrow comes and my mother wakes me. She is in tears but she is strong. The kind of strength a mother summons to comfort and protect her child. It is December 18, 2014, and on this particular day, in this particular year, my grandfather is no longer with us.
It is 6 years later and I am driving past the cemetery. I briefly think about stopping and visiting his grave but I decide against it and instead continue on my way home. I am not anxious or exhausted. I am no longer disappointed that every story doesn’t have a happy ending. I am no longer disappointed that every day doesn’t end with a prize. As my grandfather’s ring sits in the box now in my own house, I am no longer too young to understand that a pat on the back and a “Good job”, especially from someone you love and miss, is sometimes the only reward you need.
Jeremy Hargrave 